


The Adventure of the Disgraced Detective

by cinnamon_lyons



Series: Dark Days: Holmes and Moriarty [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1880s, Amorality, Holmes' darkest moment, M/M, Murder, Sadism, Terrorism, Threesome - M/M/M, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, extreme violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2771525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is early 1885. Political and public attention to ‘male lust’ is increasing, but Holmes and Moriarty receive help from an unexpected quarter when intensifying the political campaigns begun in the previous tale.</p><p>****WARNING****<br/>As this is narrated by Moriarty, there is little or no moralising: violence/rape/torture are pretty much normal to him. This particular story is more extreme in its lack of regard for human life, amounting to the glorification of terrorism and a sadistic enjoyment of murder and mutilation. This is an intentional plot point: it marks the nadir of Holmes’ failings. There will be consequences, never fear...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Disgraced Detective

**Author's Note:**

> I should add that, while I (along with, I hope, my modern day audience) share Holmes and Moriarty's objections to Victorian attitudes to homosexuality (social and legal), I do not condone my characters' actions!

It was a quiet spring evening, and Holmes and I were just returning home following a pleasant stroll down the Walworth Road. As we passed a public house a few streets from our lodgings, Holmes nudged me meaningfully, and I looked up to see a thick-set gentleman, just past middle age, glaring fixedly at a sign in the window. I grinned, knowing full well what the placard read.

I forget whose idea it had been. Certainly neither Holmes nor myself could lay claim to the stroke of genius for once. I believe it was Alf who had burst furiously into the Rat & Parrot one evening to complain about a Soho hostelry he frequented, in which the proprietors had suddenly decorated their window with the insulting slogan: “Beware of Sods!”[1] There had been much righteous indignation at this, and calls for us all to immediately cease visiting this establishment. And then someone – perhaps it was the foxy-faced Harry – had said, a little hesitantly, as if unsure what the reaction might be from his fellows.

“Well, maybe they _did_ ought to beware us!” I laughed at his words, instantly warming to the idea.

“Certainly we could _make_ them.” I suggested gleefully. Holmes rolled his eyes indulgently at me but, as was wont to happen at our meetings, a clamour of noise had already broken out following my words. Somehow, by the close of that evening, we had adopted the slogan as our own.

And it had served us well. By a variety of ingenious methods we had conspired to plant these words across the metropolis, and the sudden and rapid proliferation of the warning raised an awareness among the residents of London that had not previously existed. Men and women gossiped on street corners and in ale houses, newspapers speculated as to the possible size of this growing threat to decent citizens, and children found a new bogey man to populate their stories and their games of tag.

In addition, our notices served as an excellent recruitment campaign. Holmes ably taught us all to recognise the signs that a passer-by saw something of himself in the message before him, and our group fast outgrew the Rat & Parrot, so that we divided into chapters across the metropolis in those taverns that remained friendly to our cause.

But although this gentleman on the Walworth Road certainly read _something_ personal in the card at which he glared so furiously, it was not any form of kinship with the sentiments therein. As Holmes and I watched, he finally tore himself away from the window and began marching angrily along the street.

“Half a crown says he stops at our door.” Holmes said jovially. I snorted.

“You know I’m not foolish enough to wager against you, don’t you?” I reminded him, returning my eyes to the stranger, who had already crossed the street and was moving at a rapid pace in the direction of our lodgings. “Do you think he means us harm?” Holmes shook his head.

“Such determined strides are a sure sign that this is a family matter.” He explained. “The sagged shoulders indicate disappointment, so the likely scenario is a wayward child. Besides,” he added over his shoulder as we began to hurry after the gentleman. “I know who he is.”

We caught up with the fellow just after Mrs Hardcastle had opened the door to him. She pointed us out eagerly, and the caller seemed a little surprised that we had ambushed him from behind.

“Mr Holmes?” He enquired, and Holmes stepped forward to shake his hand firmly.  
  
“Would you care to come upstairs, Sir Vincent?” He asked, “I realise this is a matter of some delicacy, and certainly cannot be discussed in the street.”

I knew at once why Holmes had recognised the man – and was a little surprised at myself for not having done similarly. Scotland Yard’s Director of Criminal Investigations, Sir Howard Vincent, had made a regular appearance in our newspapers of late, preaching about the decline of civilisation in the modern city. He despised depravity, crime and licentiousness, all of which were best embodied for him by the “modern scourge” that he called male love. I bristled a little, determining not to shake the odious man’s hand myself and wondering what on earth he could have to say to Holmes.

Sir Vincent looked a little surprised at Holmes’ words, but nodded, seemingly dumbstruck now he had reached his destination. He followed Holmes up to the parlour, where he immediately sat where he was bade, much of his anger apparently having deserted him.

Holmes cut straight to the chase, thin fingers steepled under his chin as he leant forward from his chair to stare piercingly at the other detective.

“I take it this concerns your family, Sir Vincent?” This was more of a statement than a question.

“Why, yes! How did you-?” For all his own experience in the field, Sir Vincent was as easily thrown by Holmes as the next man. Holmes waved a hand impatiently.

“Well, with your professional connections, I doubt you would have come to me if it were not.” He pointed out. “Perhaps you would care to explain?” 

The gentleman opened his mouth to begin, but was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door, and Mrs Hardcastle entered with a tea tray. Vincent stammered a little and stopped short before he had uttered a word, blushing noticeably. Holmes raised an eyebrow at me, amused and intrigued, and we sat in silence for a few minutes as Mrs Hardcastle cheerfully filled our cups. When she had at last left, Vincent cleared his throat and began again.

“As you have already noted, Mr Holmes, this is a delicate matter – _extremely_ delicate. I have come to you because I gather you have some expertise in cases of this kind. However, I must have your word that none shall hear of this. It would doubtless cost me both my position and my reputation were this matter to become public knowledge.” Holmes nodded gravely.

“In the previous cases to which you allude, Moriarty and I have behaved with the utmost discretion, I assure you.” He said. “Your words today will not go beyond these four walls, Sir Vincent. Although I take no responsibility for where the case itself may lead us.”

This, it seemed, was enough for Vincent and he nodded.

“Very well, Mr Holmes. I want you to find my son.” This was little surprise to either of us. Holmes’ face remained just as impassive as he responded.

“I take it your son has fallen in with a disreputable crowd, Sir Vincent?” The peer’s face flushed again.

“My son Tobias is just nineteen years of age.” He explained. “We have always had a difficult relationship, he and I. Many a time I have thought he was insolently taking an opposing position merely to spite me. After he turned eighteen, he became increasingly erratic in his behaviour – drinking and gambling and staying out ‘til all hours.” The man sighed, rubbing his forehead before continuing. “All this might have been put down to the high spirits of youth, of course. But, recently, I discovered the type of men with whom he was associating.”

Obviously we both knew well enough what Vincent meant, but it seemed Holmes wished to embarrass the man by forcing him to say it aloud, for he asked.

“And what sort of men, pray, were they? Criminals, perhaps?”

“Of the very worst kind!” Vincent’s anger had started to return. “Men who take pleasure in revolting and unnatural practices. Mollies and Uranians and- and-“ He struggled to say the word, his face now almost purple. “And filthy Sodomites!”

“Indeed.” I was impressed at Holmes’ ability to remain unruffled by this outburst. “And I take it you have evidence that your son has engaged in these practices?”

“I should have realised there was something amiss when I found him reading that blasted Addington Symonds chap!”[2] Vincent was angry with himself as well as his son, it seemed. “I heard tell of the people whose company he kept, but my entreaties to him fell on deaf ears. So I followed him, one night, to a low boarding house in Soho. When I finally gained entrance to the place, I discovered my son in a compromising embrace with another man. Naturally, I was furious! For all his faults, I had not considered he would go so far.” The detective fished in his pocket for a handkerchief, mopping his brow, quite worked up by his tale.

“We had an almighty row. I threatened him with the law and he laughed in my face – he knew full well I could not risk such a scandal! I told him he was not welcome in my house, and he said he never wished to return there anyway. Eventually, he simply marched from the room.” Vincent sighed, and it was suddenly clear just how many sleepless nights he had had recently. “That was three weeks ago, and I have seen neither hide nor hair of him since. Each day I fear that he will be discovered by someone else, and it will be my ruin. He must be found, before he drags the entire family into disgrace!”

“Hmm.” Holmes considered the sorry tale for a moment. “And just what do you anticipate can be done if I _do_ find your son, Sir Vincent?” He enquired.

“I want you to make him an offer.” The distressed detective explained. “He is to give up all his previous associates, and return home. For this, I will provide him with passage to America and a small income to set himself up. He will leave the country, and never – _never –_ darken my door again.” Sir Vincent frowned. “I think he will agree. Toby may be hot-headed, but he has no income and no means of obtaining one. I had expected him back begging for money long before now. I merely want to ensure that his secret is not discovered by someone who might use it against me.”

**

I didn’t understand Holmes’ decision to help Sir Vincent, and I made this very clear immediately the Scotland Yard detective had left our hospitality.

“How can you, in all conscience, _help_ a man to have his own son transported without trial for something we ourselves do not consider any crime?” I raged, “Christ, Holmes, I know you can be cold, but Sir Vincent represents everything we despise! Do you think he would hesitate to have _us_ locked up if he could?”

Holmes let me shout until I had quite run out of steam, and then he gave a little smile.

“Believe me, Moriarty, I am all too aware of the differences between ourselves and Sir Howard Vincent. I am also very clear, as I know you are, that there is no legal way in which we might combat him. So what could be better than to take his money, and use it to fund our little rebellion? The man would pay anything to protect his reputation, you must see that!” This mollified me somewhat, but the idea of working for Sir Vincent still stuck in my craw.

“And what of his son? Is he just to be a pawn in our little game?” I grumbled. “Surely we should be fighting for _his_ rights, as well as our own!”

“Well, this _is_ a first!” Holmes smirked, “Young men have _rights_ , eh? Next thing you’ll be considering the feelings of street boys!” I scowled a little, although I supposed he had a point. “Anyway,” He went on, “I had wondered if young Tobias might be interested in _joining_ our cause. Assuming you didn’t lose your powers of persuasion when you gained these unexpected new principles...” He raised an eyebrow, and finally I was forced to smile back at him.

“Is that a challenge?" 

“It might be, James. It just might be.”

**

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t take us very long to track down Tobias Vincent. With our now widespread network, it had simply been a matter of a few well-chosen words in the right ears – and the occasional sexual favour – and the information soon reached us that young Mr Vincent was currently residing in a rather shady boarding house in Wapping. Then it was simply down to the two of us to pay him a visit: an urgent telegram ensuring that his companion was kept out of the way for the evening.

We were both perhaps a little too fond of showmanship, and neither of us was able to resist dressing up for this scenario, so that we arrived at the dirty brick terrace near to the docks for all the world looking as if we were attending a west end theatre. Somehow, however, I _had_ managed to restrain myself from tearing Holmes’ immaculate grey suit off him as soon as we were in the cab. Instead, I limited myself to enjoying the stylish profile he presented – my eyes ranging eagerly over the lean lines of his body within his well-tailored clothing – with perhaps just a casual pat of his behind as we rapped on the door.

As usual, our finery and confidence gained us rapid admission to the boarding house, and soon we were knocking on the door of the third floor room in which we were assured young Mr Vincent could be found. The lad looked rather taken aback when he opened the door, and stood in dumbfounded silence for a good few seconds. This did not, however, make him any less beautiful. A bohemian wave of golden hair swept across his forehead, and down to brush his collar. His eyes were wide blue and startlingly innocent, framed by long, dark lashes. He did not look his nineteen years, for his features were positively cherubic. I couldn’t help my mind wandering for a moment, and Holmes gave me a sidelong glance, shaking his head almost imperceptibly: he was well aware of my tastes and what I might be considering. Then he turned his attention back to the lad in front of him.

“Tobias Vincent?” Holmes held out his hand to take the slender, porcelain fingers of the young man, shaking it firmly while the boy continued to stare, mystified as to who his visitors might be. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Do I- do I know you?” The boy stammered as Holmes strode past him, into the dark, low-ceilinged room.

“You will do soon,” I purred, taking the lad’s hand for a good few seconds longer than was necessary, while flashing him my most charming smile. “James Moriarty.” The boy gave a tentative smile back as I let go his fingers, following Holmes into the room and seating myself casually on the edge of the bed. Young Vincent closed the door behind us, perplexity still furrowing his brow.

“Why are you here?” He blurted out at last. Holmes gave him a thin-lipped smile.

“I imagine you will not be overjoyed to discover that your father has sent us.” He revealed, leaning casually against the dresser that adorned one wall, an assortment of bottles and glasses clustered around the flickering lamp in its centre. Beside a rickety wooden chair next to it, and the wide, low bedstead on which I sat, the dresser was the only furniture in the room. The young man’s face darkened instantly, although he conspired to continue to look angelic nonetheless.

“My father?” He echoed. “I have nothing to say to that spiteful old fool!” The possible solution to Holmes’ identity suggested itself to him. “Are you a detective?” He demanded. “If so, you’ll be on your way right now if you don’t want any trouble!” Holmes shrugged airily.

“In a manner of speaking. I’m not from the Yard, if that’s what you mean.” He explained. “I’m a private consulting detective, and your father engaged my services as I am known to be particularly discrete in certain cases of a delicate nature.” Vincent rolled his eyes.

“Oh, spare me!” He snapped. “I think you’ve outstayed your welcome, Mr Holmes.” He made to step back towards the door, but I interrupted. 

“But, my dear, in the current climate it pays for all of us to be discrete, does it not?” I flashed the boy another grin, stretching my legs as I reclined on the bed. Toby Vincent frowned at this, not quite sure to make of what I seemed to be telling him.

“All of us?” He repeated uncertainly. I patted the bed beside me.

“Why don’t you come and sit down, Toby darling. You’re among friends now.”

Vincent looked from one to the other of us, his pretty brow still furrowed.

“You mean the two of you are...?” He left the question hanging in the air. Holmes raised an eyebrow, and I grinned back at the lad. This seemed to be enough confirmation for young Toby, who gave a peal of delighted laughter, and bounded back across the room to throw himself down on the bed beside me. “Does my father know?” He asked. 

“I sincerely doubt it.” There was more than a touch of amusement in Holmes’ voice. “I can’t imagine he would have sent _Moriarty_ after you if he did!”

“Whatever _are_ you implying, Holmes?” I was mock affronted, but shifted a little closer to the boy, who seemed more confident now he better understood the situation. He flashed me a smile, and I let my hand rest on his knee, the other reaching up to brush back the hair falling across his face. 

“You’re quite exquisite, darling.” I told him. Vincent arched his neck as my fingers touched it, his expression not a little arrogant.

“So I’m often told.” He answered, as my fingers ran down the soft skin of his neck. His gaze travelled across the room to Holmes, who had seated himself in the chair, legs stretched out in front of him as he regarded us with interest.

“Is my father paying you to find me?” Vincent asked.

“Naturally.” Holmes’ eyes danced as he said this, and young Vincent’s did too. He realised immediately what I myself had previously failed to in my ire, and edged a little closer, the movement pushing my hand further up his leg.

“It will be a pleasure to know that he has squandered his precious finances on furthering male love!” He looked down at my fingers, inching their way up the inside of his thigh, and then raised his face, smiling beatifically at me. I laughed.

“Male _lust_ , perhaps.” I corrected him. The lad laughed too, a ridiculously musical sound. I wondered idly what his screams would sound like, but determinedly pushed the thought to the back of my mind.

“Male lust, then.” Toby Vincent said and, without warning, he flung himself backwards onto the bed, stretching out gracefully across the worn coverlet, his hair spreading around his face like golden thread.

**

It was a long and enjoyable evening that Holmes and I spent with Tobias Vincent. The lad really was as wanton as his father had intimated, and no man could have wished for a more eager partner. Mid-way through the night, we lay sprawled naked across the bed, young Vincent and I, his head on my chest and one of my hands curled in his golden hair, the other roaming over a body as sculpture-perfect as his face. Holmes, as was his wont, remained seated in the room’s only chair a good few feet away, still semi-clothed, but his face a little flushed from recent orgasm. I flashed him a grin, and he smiled indulgently back. 

“You really do make quite the picture, the pair of you.” He mused, lazily running his fingers across his groin as he watched us.

“Why don’t you come and join us, then?” I invited. He smiled again.

“Presently.” He drawled. “I doubt we’ve reached the limits of your energy yet, eh darling?”

“Mmm, you know me well...” My fingers lingered on the boy’s firm young buttocks. Vincent turned his head, looking across at Holmes.

“How much of his precious money is my father wasting on this?” He enquired, with some interest. Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“A considerable amount.”

“And what will _I_ be required to do in order that you receive it?” As he spoke, Vincent’s fingers brushed across my groin, stroking along a cock already stiffening as I watched Holmes idly caressing himself. I gave a muted murmur of appreciation, drawing Holmes’ attention back to me for a second, and he licked his lips, his long, slender penis fully hard in his hand. Yet his words remained carefully measured, as he explained.

“Sir Vincent requires you to give up your contacts and return home. He will provide you with enough money to support yourself if you leave for America, and never return to this country again while he still lives.” Toby Vincent chewed his lip, taking a moment to digest these words, still stroking my penis absently as he did so. Then he gave the tiniest of shrugs.

“Sounds like an adventure.” He said carelessly. “I can’t see any reason to object.” And he shifted down my body, clearly having decided the conversation over, for he wrapped his lips around the head of my cock. I groaned, tilting my hips towards him, eyelids fluttering as I watched Holmes masturbate across the room. I wanted him there with me, then: wanted his arms around me as Vincent pleasured me. I pushed the lad rather rudely away from my cock, hauling him up onto his hands and knees, fingers probing an arsehole still well-greased from our previous encounters. After a slight squeak of surprise, Vincent settled into this well, his own erect penis bouncing a little beneath him as he ground his buttocks against my hand.

“What will you do with the money?” Now that he could speak once more, further questions seemed to have sprung to Toby Vincent’s mind, although his words trailed off into a gasp as I drew back my fingers and eased my cock into his tight, warm arsehole in their place.

“Oh, Moriarty and I have our little schemes...” Holmes’ voice made us both jump, coming as it did from just behind my shoulder. I turned my head to see him, naked at last, his arms encircling my chest, hands sliding across my body.

“You took your time!” I admonished him, and he chuckled.

“Oh darling, were you feeling neglected?” His eyes danced as his lips met mine, and I kissed him hungrily, one hand rising from where they rested on Vincent’s hips to caress the back of Holmes’ neck.

“Tell me!” Toby Vincent interrupted us, “Tell me about your plans!” It brought my attention back to the task in hand, and I began to move slowly inside him.

“Let’s say our ambitions are ultimately political.” Holmes said, and I felt his hands part my buttocks, a cool, greased finger sliding deep inside me. I shifted my body to allow him better access as I continued to thrust into Vincent, fingers gripping his thighs to steady myself.

“Political?” Toby gasped, and I parted my lips in a sigh of my own as I felt Holmes’ erection nudge against my sphincter, his breath warm on the back of my neck as he slowly penetrated me. I groaned, jolting forward into the boy as Holmes began to fuck me.

“We began to despair of these times,” Holmes explained, a little hoarsely. “When a man cannot take his pleasure where he chooses. We have recruited a modest band of like-minded fellows, we have made London aware of our presence... perhaps you would care to join us, young Toby?” Vincent laughed breathlessly.

“I’ll say I would!”

“But what next?” I asked. “Do you have something in mind for Sir Vincent’s money?” Holmes chuckled, and his lips brushed against my ear.

“I do indeed. I think, my dear Moriarty, it’s time we made our mark on the metropolis. Do you remember our little adventure on the Frisia?” I rocked back against him, the twin pleasures of Holmes’ cock deep inside me, and my own plunging into Toby Vincent almost too much for me to follow my companion’s train of thought. Frisia... the boat we had visited in our efforts to clear the name of a presumed anarchist... Her cargo...

“You want to buy fireworks?” I asked, made rather stupid by lust. Holmes laughed again, caressing me fondly.

“Not fireworks, James. Nitroglycerine. Gunpowder!” My eyes widened at this: in surprise at his words, alongside the anticipation of my impending orgasm.

“I imagine...” Holmes’ own words were rushed now, hurriedly inserted between panting gasps. “I imagine, were we to purchase the necessary chemicals, that we could make it easily enough?”

“Of course!” My head was spinning, “Of course we could – oh, Holmes!” Digging my fingers into Toby Vincent’s porcelain thighs with bruising force, I ejaculated with a rush inside him, my entire body seeming to throb on Holmes’ cock as he too spent his seed, deep within me.

**

And so we set about putting Holmes’ plan into action with some rapidity. It had not taken much for us to gain our funds from Sir Vincent. After a few hasty promises to come to his aid should he require it, we had returned young Toby to his relieved parent, and the lad was now near enough a prisoner in his own home while his father made preparations for his forthcoming exile.

“Still, I can’t help but wonder if that’s the safest place for such a pretty lad,” Holmes commented drily, “Having seen the way you were looking at him, Moriarty my dear, I did wonder how quickly you might chance to forget that rash assertion that young men have rights.” I rolled my eyes, but took the comment with good grace. It was true: a pretty boy was all very well for an evening, but I never could seem to keep them in one piece for long.

Holmes’ detective knowledge served us well in covering our tracks. With Sir Vincent’s money, we ordered small amounts of the chemicals we required from various suppliers on different dates and under different names: save for one large order via my university laboratory, where it would easily escape notice. The university, of course, also furnished us with a ready location to mix and store our supplies. As a nearly completed doctoral candidate, I had a pretty free run of the place, and no one would blink an eye if they found me alone in the laboratory late at night.

Informing our comrades of our plans had been rather more complicated. Some could not countenance our decision, others were confused at first.

“But what purpose will it serve?” Was a frequent enquiry. Myself, I was caught up in the sheer _force_ of the idea, and would have carried it out no matter what use it might be in our overall operation. Holmes, however, was easily able to explain.

“The time for talk is over, gentlemen.” He had said, slowly and seriously. “Our campaign of placards and gossip is all very well, but do you ever think we will bring about real change that way? We have still too much to lose even to come out in the open, much less demand our rights. But this will get us the notice of the authorities. We will detonate our dynamite in some public place – a theatre perhaps – where it will cause the maximum damage. Then we will send our demands to the newspapers, threatening further violence. We can insist on political change without any of us ever having to be individually identified. It’s the only solution.”

“People will die!” One man had objected with horror. Holmes was as coldly resolute as ever.

“We can choose our target to ensure maximum annoyance and publicity with minimum injury, perhaps.” He suggested, sounding like he wasn’t overly worried with the latter part of this plan. “But yes, people _may_ die. If you cannot abide that, you should leave now.”

To my surprise, relatively few had abandoned our cause, although it had now taken a markedly different tack. Perhaps most of us had always anticipated that this would end in violence. Even Charlie Wootton, who I had always supposed, from his sheer amiability, to be a peace-loving sort of chap, merely shrugged.

“Them’s the things we got to do if we want change.” He said to me sagely. Myself, I gleefully anticipated our project. One thing Holmes and I had always shared was a general lack of respect or fellow feeling for the dull mass of humanity. What did we care if a few of those sluggish drones perished in our triumph?

Our preparations took time, but eventually we had secured our target: the drinking house where the first placard had gone up, prompting our retaliatory battle. It had a long cellar that extended some way beneath the theatre next door. An explosion here would cause considerable damage to both buildings. We would use Holmes’ abilities in the art of disguise to infiltrate the venue, under the pretext of various deliveries, and we had already established one of our number as a worker on the premises to assist with this and, eventually, to light the fuse.

And so the stage was set, and all Holmes and I had to do now was wait. I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed that we would not, ourselves, witness the result of our efforts. It transpired, however, that Holmes felt the same, for the evening before our blast was to take place, he announced, with a mysterious grin, that he had a little gift for me.

“Call it an unusual moment of folly.” He told me, “I’m well aware that it puts us both in not inconsiderable danger. But perhaps that’s all part of the excitement!” I cocked my head, beginning to guess his meaning.

“And what might this danger be?” I enquired. He grinned, sliding his arms around me.

“Let’s just say I’ve booked us a room with a view for tomorrow night.” He explained. My own lips spread into a smile to mirror his own.

“That, my darling, is the best present anyone ever gave me!” I kissed him, long and hard. “Believe me, I think it will be worth the risk.” 

**

As I stood looking out of the wide, second-floor window, watching the bustling crowds pass below, I could well see why this situation would appeal to Holmes. Behind the glass, the hubbub of the Soho streets was reduced to a murmur, and we could easily observe the goings-on without being in any way part of them. Observation had always been Holmes’ preference: he preferred not to get his hands dirty, as it were. Myself, I’d rather be in the midst of the action – as dirty as you like! But, for now, this would have to do. 

I reached into my waistcoat for my fob watch. Ten to seven. We had a full ten minutes still to wait! While seven o’clock was too early for the theatre or the public house to be full, the streets were thronged and our explosion would certainly spread the fear and chaos we intended. I sucked in my breath, throwing the watch onto the low window seat beside me, my waistcoat soon following it.

Holmes, clad only in a collarless shirt and trousers, padded up behind me on bare feet, sliding his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.

“Almost time.” He remarked, as he gazed down at the theatre opposite. “Are you excited, darling?” As he spoke, one of his hands slid down over my groin, caressing the bulge in my trousers. I grinned, wriggling in his arms so that I could turn my head to brush my lips tantalisingly against his.

“I can hardly bear it!” I told him, letting my tongue flick across his open mouth, before sliding it between his lips, kissing him eagerly. “Do you think there will be blood?” I murmured at last, drawing back my head. Holmes laughed, well aware of my foibles.

“I’m sure there will be blood.” He deftly unbuttoned my trousers one-handed, slipping his fingers inside to wrap around my now fully erect penis. He kissed my neck, beginning to caress me with slow, firm strokes, murmuring again in my ear. “I’m _sure_ there will be blood...”

I groaned, aroused by both Holmes’ words and his actions, leaning back against him. Through the fabric of my garments, I could feel the swell of his erect penis press against my buttocks, straining against the fabric as he rubbed himself against me.

With his free hand, Holmes eased my trousers and undergarments over my hips, letting them fall in a crumpled heap around my feet. I groaned, writhing against him, feeling the warm skin of his hand against my buttocks as he slid it between us to unfasten his own trousers. His lips brushed the back of my neck, and then we both froze, Holmes’ hands still on his trouser fastening as, somewhere, a clock began to strike seven.

“Fuck me!” I hissed urgently, “I want you inside me when it happens.” Holmes let out his breath in a sharp hiss, his fingers fumbling the last button in his haste before his penis finally sprang free as the last chime rang out.

He didn’t waste any time in preparing me but, with a muffled grunt, he thrust his erection between my buttocks, spearing deep inside me. It seemed perversely fitting that his entry was more than a little painful. As I gasped in response, the world outside suddenly shattered.

The blast was near-deafening, making the entire building vibrate and the glass in the window crack ominously. Thankfully, it didn’t shatter, but on the other side of the wide thoroughfare shards of glass burst glittering across the stone pavements. Pedestrians were thrown this way and that, the echo of the blast still too loud for us to hear their screams. The ale house seemed to have collapsed in on itself, dust and smoke rising around it in great clouds as it was swallowed by its very foundations.

Holmes and I both stood staring in silent awe for those first few seconds, his hands on my shoulders and his cock plugged deep inside me. We both, I think, were barely able to believe that we could possibly have caused such an impact, visited so much destruction on this city that we called home. I had rather hoped that the largely wooden interior of the theatre would catch fire, and was pleasantly rewarded with the sight of flames licking from the empty hole of a foyer window, close to the drinking den. It wasn’t long before the fire lit up a street made prematurely dark by clouds of dust and soot.

“Rather magnificent, isn’t it?” Holmes murmured in my ear, and I sighed my assent. The world still seemed to shake around me, and Holmes began to move again, jerking his hips to rock back and forth inside me. I gazed intently out of the cracked window, watching as men and women struggled to rise from the stones, tottering helplessly with dirty clothing and blood-streaked faces. The first panicked survivors who had begun to tumble down the front steps of the theatre were charred black, clothes flapping around them in tattered rags, some with hideous wounds to faces and limbs. Two men supported another between them, dragging him across the flagstones. I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.

I supposed we would have to wait for the newspapers to discover the exact results of our crime: how many injured, how many lived or died. For now, it was enough to watch as flames began to lick through the upper levels of the theatre, highlighting the staggering figures that spilled out into the street.

Holmes’ fingers gripped my upper arms, his breath coming in panting gasps as he began to fuck me in earnest. I had a feeling that he wasn’t really watching the scene below any longer. In this particular instance, he cared little for the detail: the grand gesture was complete. Yet for me, the chaos below only intensified the pleasure I felt as he thrust into me again and again. I savoured every detail, one hand tugging urgently at my erection as I perused the mutilated figures, enjoyed the knowledge that I had caused their injuries. I wished I could be down there, among them, could revel in the chaos, could touch the wounds that my acts had inflicted...

My orgasm burst through me like a secondary explosion, blood pounding in my ears, dulling out the wails and cries that had started to penetrate the room, and I ejaculated with such force that my semen splashed across the cracked window pane, as if decorating the ruined street below.

I twisted in Holmes’ arms, as his spent penis slipped from my arsehole, gasping breathlessly into a kiss. I grinned at him, still panting from our efforts.

“It’s all rather decadent, isn’t it?” I mused. “Fucking while London burns!” Holmes laughed.

“With you, my dear, I would never accept anything less than decadence.” He said, almost fondly, and he kissed me again.

\-------------------------------------

[1] According to a late 19th century magazine, such notices did indeed appear. The adoption of the slogan by a motley horde of gay rights activists is, as far as I'm aware, entirely fictional.

[2] John Addington Symonds published ‘A Problem in Greek Ethics’ in 1883 (written a decade earlier), supporting the ideal of ‘Greek Love’ (i.e. male love). He later built on this with ‘A Problem in Modern Ethics’ and collaborated with Havelock Ellis on the psychology text, ‘Sexual Inversion’ (an early book on homosexuality), in which he himself appeared as an anonymous case study. The book was not published until after Symonds' death, and his family refused to allow him to be attributed as a co-author.

**Author's Note:**

> Sir Howard Vincent really was Director of Criminal Investigations at Scotland Yard, and did indeed make the newspaper comments that Moriarty refers to. He probably didn’t employ Holmes to find his wayward son, though. If he even had one.


End file.
